


Me, myself, Curufinwë

by Doitsuki



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Admiration, Drabble, M/M, Narcissism, Pining, may be interpreted as incest depending on how far you're willing to reach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 19:54:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5388224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doitsuki/pseuds/Doitsuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Curufin thinks about his father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Curufin thinks about his father.

Fëanor stands in the boiling forges all day (not _in_ so as to cook himself alive but near enough to soften metal) and comes home only to sleep. His waiting children are grown, most over the age of fifty, all eager for their father’s attention.

Fëanor’s attention is a wonderful thing.

It is a sharp bolt of focussed silver, pricked with the flames of interest that light those dark eyes. It is the ancient stillness in which he holds himself, shoulders squared, head aligned straight, fingers keeping each other warm in his lap. That is when he sits on a sofa and welcomes conversation, an occurrence so rare it seems more legend than life.

Curufin watches through the window of the forge, his eyes peeping through gaps in the leaves of his bush. This is _his_ comfortable hiding place where he can observe his father and have no-one bother him at all. He is getting a little big for the bush as he grows taller, but pays more attention to Fëanor than himself. He has enough flower crowns to cover his head. No self-respecting elf would question a flower-covered bush in the Spring.

Fëanor faces Curufin as he hammers at a sword on the anvil, flattening it then melting again to strengthen the blade. It is a long, heavy piece of work and Fëanor’s thick arm muscles glisten and twitch with the effort of labour. He wears only an apron to protect the front of his body from harm. When he turns, his lack of pants sends a flush of heat to Curufin’s cheeks. Fëanor’s body is so finely sculpted it is as if his will has shaped it himself. Taut, rounded buttocks and powerful legs. Flowing muscles curling around his arms. Such a beautiful, strong face. Curufin sighs and touches his own. There are those high cheekbones and long, dark eyelashes. Majestic thunder brows. A swooping profile edged with the sharpest nose the Valar have dared make, and thin lips with a precious dip in the center. How Curufin loves his father. How he loves _himself_. 


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, Fëanor goes to work on his sword again. He takes a few sandwiches with him and locks the door, so that no disturbances may come. Curufin sets up camp in his little bush and observes.

Fëanor has become acquainted with nudity as have most elves, for there is no reason for shame among the beautiful Firstborn. Curufin is grateful and relishes the view from where he sits. Whenever he gazes upon Fëanor’s glowing, tanned flesh and purposeful strikes, a certain warm fullness coils in his stomach. He does not feel hungry or tired when he watches his father thus. Unnoticed. Indecent. Alone.

It is interesting to him how the first in line for Finwë’s throne acts when he believes nobody is around. He stuffs a sandwich into his mouth, inhaling it while sorting through gems for the hilt of his sword. The sword is a two-handed beast of a thing, the kind only Valar can hope to wield with a single grip. Curufin has never seen Fëanor use a greatsword before. He wonders who the weapon is for.

~

That night when Fëanor comes home (properly clothed and heading for the baths), Curufin is waiting for him.

“Atya!” Coming around the corner of the hallway, Curufin’s face lights up as if mere coincidence blessed him with close proximity to his father. “Finally, you return.”

“Mhm.” Fëanor pushes past him, knowing Curufin will not get in his way. He has things to do, but so does his son. Curufin tries not to stomp his foot on the ground in immediate frustration.

“Wait! I must ask you something.”

“Make it quick, then.” says Fëanor, striding down the hall away from his son.

“The sword you were making today… who is it for?” Curufin talks of the thing he’s seen his father work on for days straight as if only just learning of it. Fëanor stiffens, his shoulders tense, his breath cuts short.

“Someone deserving of greatness.”

“Who, Atya? Who?” Curufin cannot think of a single soul that Fëanor would hold in such high regard. Curiosity sparkles in his eyes, the same piercing silver as Fëanor’s. Lined with black, his eyelids tighten in a squint. Is Fëanor… _shaking_?

“Go to bed, Curvo. You ask much of a weary elf this night.”

 _‘Weary indeed_ ,’ thinks Curufin. _‘Hammering all that hard metal and melting precise points all day long… ooh. He’s going to relax in the baths then go to sleep, and come morning he will be working again.’_

Fëanor walks a little faster and turns a corner, haste quickening his steps. The floor is carpeted in glorious blue, Finwë’s favourite colour. White marble rushes past Fëanor’s head as he passes pillars, sculptures and walls. Curufin watches him from the end of the hallway.

He does not know what to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh look I wrote some more

**Author's Note:**

> 30 mins. Drabble.


End file.
